


Brotherhood and Friendships, Hoorah

by bergann



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergann/pseuds/bergann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Brad would never fucking talk to any of these assholes if it wasn't for the fact that they're all part of the same battalion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherhood and Friendships, Hoorah

_"There is a destiny which makes us brothers; none goes his way alone."_  
\-- Edwin Markham

 

The thing is, Brad would never fucking talk to any of these assholes if it wasn't for the fact that they're all part of the same battalion. They are a collected bunch of freaks and rejects who'd never talk to each other in the real world, thrust together because of a war, and getting along because it's not like there's a whole lot of choice in the middle of the desert.

Even then it isn't friendship, it's brotherhood.

The brotherhood isn't forgotten in the real world, but brothers don't have that same need to keep in touch as friends do. Brothers know they'll see each other again, and if they do, there'll be shit to talk about. Friends however, they've got to keep in touch through effort. They're not content to let life dictate contact. It's a rare fucking day to see true long lasting friendships during a war, people you can look at that you'll know whatever bond they have won't just dissolve back to brotherhood as soon as their feet are back on American soil. You've got the exceptions of course, like Rudy and Pappy, although they're more like a married couple from some cheesy sitcom, Q-Tip and Christenson, Ray and Walt, Nate and Gunny Wynn who are unlikely, sure, but Brad knows better than to underestimate the bond created by being the only two voices of reason against a chain of fucking idiotic incompetence. But overall, Brad knows most of these guys will lose contact; maybe not immediately, but after a month, definitely. After six, you know who's sticking around and who isn't.

It suits him just fine. Friendships aren't things to be trusted anyway. Emotional investment just means whatever human fuckup is on the way will hurt more when it actually arrives.

Still, Brad knows Iraq is different than Afghanistan -- which he left keeping only in touch with Kocher, Poke and two others -- because Iraq was not a recon mission. They were a diversion for the real war, and they all got dropped in the deep end with their hands and feet tied together and a sack over their head.

It creates something else, something that might be stronger, but it doesn't erase the truth of it: wars create brotherhood, not friendships.

He considered explaining it to Reporter before he left, but he opted out of it.

The reason is simple: Reporter would either figure out that the guys he felt emotionally connected to have spent the past weeks jacking off to his girlfriend's picture and trading it for batteries with zero qualms about it on his own or he won't. Besides, opening his mouth to tell him had felt too much like he was getting ready to tell some little kid Santa isn't real on Christmas Eve, and after that war, even Brad wasn't up for that.

The point is that Brad's completely comfortable with the fact that he will probably never speak with any of these guys ever again except for a select few.

Kocher is a given. As is Poke, who made it clear long ago he'd never give Brad peace simply to annoy the shit out of him, and of course Ray who is very much like that STD you get from being too fucking turned on to doubt the cheerleader when she says she's clean, even though you know she's been with the entire football team. You can't help but hope you got away the next morning, but you still know deep down, you're never that lucky.

Ray shows up in Brad's life repeatedly, bordering on stalking sometimes, but he's usually with beer, so Brad actually lets him in. Reporter keeps in touch too, the occasional sporadic e-mail, which is exactly what Brad expected of him.

The surprise comes with Nate who actually sends an e-mail at least once a week, even if Brad hasn't found time to reply to the last one yet. If more than five days passes without word from him, Brad usually makes time to at least write down a paragraph about the bullshitting Communist retards he's supposed to listen to and respect, something he knows will provoke a response no matter what it was in the last e-mail that pissed Nate off. It's Brad's way of saying _I'm sorry_ and _if only you were in charge_. He suspects Nate knows.

It's not something Brad expected, though he knows his actions in Iraq made some impact on Nate, just like Nate's choices made an impact on Brad. Still, it's rare for actual friendships to form between officers and enlisted men, and Brad can't help but find he doesn't completely trust it.

"You know what your problem is?" Ray asks, when Brad, in a moment of stupidity caused by excessive drinking that'll certainly never happen again (the stupidity, that is, he's quite fond of the excessive drinking while on leave) admits to that last little tidbit, doesn't even pretend to pause for a reply before continuing, "Your problem is that pussy bitch and your fucking cunt of an ex-fiancé. See, you've let them define how you think about fucking everything that includes human contact, forgetting that they are not fucking important. They are, in fact, just pussy little bitches pretending to be smart people and doing as retarded a job as Captain America out of it, ruining you for true friends like your best pal Rayray and little civilian Fick."

"Don't lump Fick in with you," Brad says.

"Fuck man," Ray answers and laughs, "I'd be offended if I didn't think this is the closest you've fucking come so far to admitting even inside your own pussy brain that the way you feel about me and Fick are different."

"You're an uneducated whiskey tango, trailer park fuck who'd have sex with absolutely anything that stood still long enough," Brad says, "which, knowing you, probably doesn't need to be more than fifteen fucking seconds. It'd be a fucking insult to everything I stand for to say you and Fick anything alike."

Ray's face indicates that the conversation isn't over; he even opens his goddamn fucking mouth again, so Brad looks him in the eye and says, "There is absolutely nothing that guarantees you waking up tomorrow."

Ray shuts his mouth at that, but it is apparently not enough of a threat to stop him from sending an e-mail once their leave thankfully parts ways, with the subject line _your angst makes gay baby jesus and his kittens cry_ and the only text is a phone number.

Brad remembers Ray talking about getting a new phone, so in a moment that clearly indicates he needs to stop spending time with fucking retards, he assumes the number is for Ray's new phone and calls it.

"See, if he's been gay since birth, then Jesus can suck my cock and his kittens can fucking well watch," Brad says.

There's no sudden burst of laughter or even a snappy comeback, and after forty seconds, Brad thinks _motherfucking Ray_ and is just about to hang up, when a voice goes, "Brad?"

It takes Brad less time to place the voice. "Nate?"

"Yeah," Nate's voice has an amused tone to it. It's surprisingly easy for Brad to imagine the smirk on his face. "Is there a reason you're calling me to talk about Jesus sucking your dick in front of tiny innocent kittens?"

"Goddamn motherfucking Ray," Brad says, "I should disown him."

"Is that even possible?" Nate asks, "To actually get rid of Ray Person?"

"No," Brad sighs, "but the thought was nice while it lasted."

Nate hums agreement, laughter still evident in his voice. They talk for a while, bringing each other up to speed, since the e-mails tend to be more of a discussion than any real updates on life. Nate's in the middle of a rant about some of the retarded liberal dipshits (Brad's words, not his) in his class, when he suddenly makes a curious noise. "You on leave in California now?"

"Yeah," Brad says, a little puzzled but he's used to conversations taking unexpected turns and just stretches out comfortably on the couch. He hasn't changed after the flight or unpacked, but it can wait. "One glorious week to surf and ride my bike. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I'd hate to spoil your fun," Nate says, "but someone just sent me some tickets for the redeye with the message 'after all this, you both better fucking appreciate my genius'."

"Goddamn Ray," Brad says, but the infliction is different this time. Reporter would probably call it some pussy word like 'fond'. He smiles though, to himself, and says, "I'll clear some space on the couch for you, sir, unless you've grown soft on your fellow students to part with them even for a week."

"I'd feel guilty since you're clearly putting a lot of effort into this," Nate says, "I guess I'll just have to accept."


End file.
